


Flowery Language

by sunnilee



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Except like, F/M, Fluff, florist vs botanist, my usual brand ya kno
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-05
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-17 04:48:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29219760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunnilee/pseuds/sunnilee
Summary: There's a greenhouse villain and he's been keeping Ingrid's flowers hostage.Who is heandwhatis he doing with all of her flowers??
Relationships: Ingrid Brandl Galatea/Sylvain Jose Gautier, Minor or Background Relationship(s), such as felannie and just a wee bit of mercedue
Comments: 14
Kudos: 26
Collections: Sylvgrid Big Bang





	Flowery Language

**Author's Note:**

> AND MY FLUFF WEEK ROUNDS OUT WITH ONE LAST MINIBANG WITH [ANDI](https://twitter.com/anditiucs/status/1357705340540829700?s=20) HERSELF!!
> 
> This was a big struggle for both of us, fighting through burnout and exhaustion, but we finally did it... we finally pushed through the flower shop au... a desperate prompt submitted in order to balance out some of the angst happening around these sylvgrid parts...
> 
> Due to my schedule, I unfortunately didn't have a proper beta session, but big s/o to my best friend who sat on video chat with me and reading it live to me to catch some of the dropped words and grammar mistakes  
> love ya boo <3  
> It also ended up being a bit of a different style from my usual narrative of sylvgrid (definitely rushed i'm sorz), time-crunch and scrapping the initial draft of this fic, but I hope you like it anyway!

Ingrid, by all means, is _not_ a short-tempered person.

A stickler for rules, _sure,_ but she’s built up her fair share of tolerance for… _shenanigans_ , courtesy of having three rowdy boys as best friends in her childhood and growing up with four brothers.

Granted, she hadn’t been able to stay in contact with those friends, having moved away for familial reasons. If she were honest, she couldn’t quite remember their names nor their faces, but fond memories of hot summer days and one _particular_ high-pitched whining voice for shade were enough for her to remember the _patience_ she honed over the years.

But _this…_ this was pushing it.

She’d accepted a position at the Garreg Mach University Botanical Gardens about three months ago, eager to put her botany degree to use and cultivate skills that she could bring back to Galatea in order to assist in advancing the agriculture of her home.

What she _didn’t_ anticipate was the steady disappearance of all the flowers she tended to.

It was subtle. She wouldn’t have noticed it if she hadn’t decided to take it easy one night, opting to check on her gladiolus pots the next morning, too tired from the sudden influx of new plants that she split with Dedue and Annette. They’d hammered out the watering schedule and rotated shifts to make sure all of their personal conflicts were accommodated. 

And of course, while still blinking the sleep from her eyes, Ingrid could’ve sworn a few of her gladiolus stalks were missing, sliced at a clean diagonal, leaving some of the newer blooms behind.

Fatigued as she was, she figured maybe Dedue had helped trimmed her plants for their health, having been employed for years longer than her and staying behind a little later than her the day before.

Then, it happened again.

And again.

It started happening so many times, she started keeping a log.

Her lilacs. Her camellias. Her heathers. Her honeysuckles. Even her sweet peas.

And the latest victim, her white roses.

Eyebrow twitching, Ingrid snaps a quick photo of her clipped roses and stashes her phone away. With the flowers glaringly _missing_ , she makes quick work of shaping the bush, trimming off any overzealous branches and avoiding the remaining thorns with practiced ease. Once she finishes, she stands with a huff, eyes searching the grounds for her co-worker. She spies a bouncing head of ginger hair with an armful of… _white roses?_

Then, her eyes narrow at the innocent watering can in Annette’s path. Suspicion momentarily forgotten, Ingrid rushes forward. “Annette, your feet!”

“Huh?!”

Despite her warning, Ingrid watches Annette spin violently around at her voice and trip over the offending object all the same, landing with a _clang_ and a muffled _oof!_ Feeling both guilt and exasperation, she hurries over, kneeling quickly to assess her co-worker’s scraped hands and knees. “Annette… that’s the fifth time in the last two weeks. Please be more careful…”

Annette rubs her neck sheepishly. “Sorry Ingrid… but it’s not my fault some villain keeps leaving their gardening tools around all willy-nilly!”

Ingrid raises her eyebrows. “Annette, I distinctly remember you setting that watering can down--”

“A _villain_ , Ingrid.”

Laughing lightly, Ingrid helps her up and takes a look at the scattered white roses on the ground around them. She bites her lip. “ _Speaking_ of villains, Annie… I think there’s someone lurking in the greenhouse other than us.”

Annette’s eyes widen. “Wait… have you _really_ seen this villain Ingrid? But he said he couldn’t come today—!” 

“Hold on, you know who—?”

“Oh no, oh _no_ Ingrid. I _know_ he said he couldn’t come today, but you said someone’s lurking? Oh _goddess,_ you don’t think it’s a… a _ghost_ do you?!”

Ingrid blinks. “A ghost?”

Annette’s eyes dart around the greenhouse, roses completely forgotten. “Y-you don’t think the ghost is watching us right now, do you? It’s broad daylight, he can’t!”

“Annie—”

“Oooh, we have to get out of here, Ingrid! I’m feeling shivers run down my spine!”

Annette grasps her hand in a deathgrip and begins to tug. “Wait, Annette, the roses!”

Ingrid bumps into Annette when she screeches to a halt. “The roses!”

With a speed she didn’t know her co-worker possessed, Ingrid watches Annette sweep the fallen roses into her arms and dash off toward the exit. “C’mon Ingrid!”

A few roses fall from Annette’s hasty grip and Ingrid chuckles as she picks up the flower trail Annette leaves behind. She twirls one between her fingers, gently smoothing out the silky petals. 

_These are definitely her roses._

Sighing, Ingrid jogs out of the greenhouse, following the telltale trail of roses Annette leaves behind. 

* * *

Though she didn’t quite know what to expect once she followed Annette’s trail of roses to the company car, Ingrid _still_ found herself surprised as she’s hastily stuffed into the passenger seat, the majority of her roses in their standard white buckets for transportation.

Her brow furrows. “Annette, when did you have the time to do all of this—”

“Buckle up, Ingrid! I’m already late for this delivery, so I’m going to need you to help me haul all of these roses to the shop!”

“Shop? What shop—”

“Oh _no…_ I hope he’s not going to be too upset… he even asked me in particular to deliver today because he and his friend didn’t have the time to stop by!”

“ _Annette.”_

Her co-worker jolts with a squeak, wide eyes turning to her and Ingrid sighs. “Annette, take a few breaths.”

And she did.

“Okay, _good._ Better?”

A slow nod.

“All right. _Now,_ you lost me from the moment I saw you carrying my roses off to Goddess knows where. What’s going on? Why were my flowers clipped and who are we delivering to?”

In a turn of events, Annette’s brow furrows. “Did no one tell you?”

Ingrid pauses. “Tell me what?”

Anette’s jaw drops before she firmly sets her shoulders, her hands grasping the steering wheel. “He--ooh, I can’t believe him! He said he was going to introduce himself and tell you! _Okay_ , delivery _first_ and I’ll _make_ him explain everything!”

Ingrid blinks blankly at Annette’s sudden change in demeanor, staring on in confusion even as she sends her an apologetic smile. “No wonder you’ve been so confused about all the flower clippings… Don’t worry, Ingrid. Once we get these roses to the florist, I _promise_ everything is going to make sense!”

Annette turns the key in the ignition and the delivery truck roars to life. Ingrid automatically reaches to buckle up, her mind still racing to catch up to the entire morning’s events.

_Florist?_

* * *

Ingrid vaguely recognizes the road they take into town, the brick-laid roads of central downtown creating an old-timey feel as the bustling modern marketplace comes into view. She grips the car door as Annette makes a sharp left into one of the open lots and bursts out of her seat. One hand shoots to her phone before she shoves it into the crook of her neck, allowing both of her hands to start busying with unloading the buckets of roses.

Ingrid watches her co-worker’s face brighten briefly before falling flat. “Felix, I don’t need to hear your berating! We’re here now and we need help getting it over to the shop!”

She pauses, a tiny memory of a brash, rambunctious voice tingling in the back of her head. _Felix?_

Whoever Felix is, he replies with something that makes Annette visibly bristle and hangs up shortly after. Ingrid’s eyebrows rise in amusement as Annette stamps her foot and exhales sharply. “That absolute _villain,_ Felix! He never changes!”

 _Ah, so_ Felix _is the villain._

Before she could even open her mouth to question Annette about said villain, Annette heaves one of the buckets out of the truck in a huff and Ingrid finds herself scrambling to right her posture before the roses and water go flying. “Annette, wait! Your grip is—”

Despite her best efforts, water sloshes over the edge and splashes over the front of her apron and shoes. Ingrid grimaces. _At least the rush of the morning did_ some _good for her._ Annette squeaks and starts apologizing profusely, her hands frantically searching the back of a truck for a spare towel. 

Then, she hears an exasperated snort. “I thought I told you to wait, Annette. You know your track record with buckets.”

A scandalous gasp. “ _Felix!_ I wouldn’t _have_ that track record if _you_ didn’t leave them all around the greenhouse!”

Ingrid’s brow furrows. _Felix works at the greenhouse? Why hasn’t she ever worked with him before?_ Felix sighs heavily. “That was _one_ time and I said I was sorry. All the _other_ times, _you’ve_ left them behind and forgot about it—”

“I don’t want to hear it, villain!”

Annette’s cheeks puff out and Felix sighs again. Then, his eyes flicker over to her and something flashes across his face, but it’s gone too quickly for Ingrid to decipher what it was. He holds a hand out. “I’m Felix, one of the part-timers at the University Gardens per contract.”

 _Oh._ She clasps his hand and shakes it firmly. “Ingrid. Nice to meet you.” 

The corner of his mouth quirks down and lets go of her hand quickly. He jerks his head toward the roses and swiftly moves to pick two of them up by the handles. “Let’s go. Sylvain may be lazy most days, but he’s absolutely insufferable when we run behind during Garland Moon orders.”

Her chest tightens.

_Sylvain?_

_Garland Moon?_

* * *

The first thing Ingrid notices is the winding line that spills out the front door and wraps around the block, excited whispers tittering as the three of them draw closer. Felix breezes past the crowd with practiced ease, not a single drop of water spilling as he swings toward the back of the shop.

Annette, on the other hand, huffs as she races after Felix, leaving a wet trail behind her. Biting her lip at the pink in her co-worker’s cheeks, Ingrid herself squeezes past the gaggle of girls at the entrance, muttering a quick ‘ _excuse me’_ as she heaves her own rose bucket into the store.

Upon entering the shop, Ingrid’s lambasted with the smell of fresh flowers and sparkling displays of artfully crafted bouquets, their glass vases catching the sunlight. Her jaw drops slightly as she takes in the dewy mist on vibrant petals, slowly swiveling in place as she surveys the rest of the interior. Despite being a small corner store, the full-length glass paneling reminds her of the greenhouse and she feels strangely at home with natural stones lining the walls and oakwood tables. 

“Ingrid, back here!”

She jolts out of her trance at Annette’s call. Flushing, Ingrid hastily follows her voice to the back room where Felix and Annette wait with the rest of the roses. “I’m sorry, I got distracted by all the displays, it’s beautiful--”

Someone clears their throat and Ingrid’s eyes jump to the... additional person in the room. 

The additional person with messy ginger hair and warm brown eyes that remind her of lazy summer days. Her heart twists when the smile on his face brightens.

Then, he opens his mouth and teases, “well, it only makes sense beautiful flowers come from someone as beautiful as yourself.”

Her eyes widen. _‘Beautiful flowers come from someone as beautiful as yourself’_ “ _You’re_ the one— _”_

Felix’s elbow jab lands against the other man’s ribs. “ _Not_ the time, Sylvain. You have your usual string of fangirls lining up outside.”

The other man, _Sylvain,_ Ingrid notes, wheezes and rubs at his side absently. “ _Customers_ , Felix. _Loyal_ customers, may I remind you, who provide us our _most_ productive and profitable event with Garland Moon festivities. But you’re right, I’ve got to get out there and fend off the lions now that you’re all here to start the pre-orders. I’ll see you in a bit!”

Sylvain dances away from another one of Felix’s swipes but pauses as he passes her, brown eyes gleaming. “Thank you for your service, Ing. Your flowers are the prettiest.”

Her jaw drops again as he sends her a wink and bounds off toward the cash register, hands deftly tying his apron behind him.

She clenches her fists.

This doofus has been clipping her flowers, and he’s used it as an opportunity to _flirt._

Closing her eyes and inhaling deeply, Ingrid slowly turns around. “Annette?”

“Mhm?”

She takes another measured breath before opening her eyes again. Felix is off in the corner, muttering something under his breath while retrieving his apron while Annette lingers close by, laying out the roses with accompanying floral wire and ribbons. Ingrid purses her lips. “I think it’s time for my explanation.”

* * *

Ingrid barely spares a glance at the sweating glass of iced coffee that slides into her vision, her eyes pointedly focused on twining floral wire around the stems to secure the garland in place. There was a contract and partnership the university and the flower shop had in place, marketing and sales the driving motivator, wherein the university cares for sellable flora in bulk and the florists work part-time at the greenhouse and harvest on the predetermined schedule for seasonal events. Vice-versa, the greenhouse staffers can volunteer to take additional shifts at the flower shop that the university would sponsor. 

While her head spun with the additional information she had somehow _missed_ when signing her job offer and missed during orientation… Annette and Felix had set-up the usual stations to maximize garland-making efficiency. Drying, rose dethorning, chaining, finishing touches. Each of them cycled through the stations until Annette and Felix rotated to staff the front of the store for a change of pace, and to let Sylvain take a break from fielding thinly veiled advances left and right.

‘ _Good for business’_ , Ingrid thought she heard him say, ‘ _hearing out custom orders during Garland Moon always works in our favor.’_ She’d grimaced, internally relieved that Annette and Felix had spared her a rotation through the front since she was _‘new and all’._ Staying in the back weaving flowers was enough considering the number of pre-orders they _already_ had to fulfill. 

And although loathe to admit it, they were right. She _was_ just thinking about taking a break just a few minutes earlier… her fingers are _more_ than a little raw, perhaps a little roughed up from the earlier dethorning before Felix traded with her. She couldn’t even imagine how exhausted she would be if she had to put up a front the entire time.

...Speaking of fronts, she did _not_ want to entertain the gleaming eyes of the man leaning across the table from her, his bright smile slowly slipping into a pitiful pout.

The man who had been _clipping_ and _stealing_ her flowers without _telling her._

She hears him sigh and retreat back to his stool, its metal legs scraping against the stone floor as he scoots back. “I guess I should’ve brought two apology coffees and a donut then, huh?”

Ingrid clenches her jaw and ignores him, one hand reaching out for another rose to add to the floral chain without looking. She jolts when her hand brushes against skin.

Her eyes fly up and meet his slight frown. “I’m sorry, Ingrid. I know the university contract said—”

She exhales sharply and snatches her hand away. “ _University contract_ or not _,_ I would’ve _appreciated_ a heads-up on why my flowers were disappearing.”

Sylvain runs his hand through his hair and sighs again, reaching for his own pile of roses to start on another order. “No, you’re right. I should’ve stopped by the greenhouse earlier to introduce myself. I just…” 

Ingrid waits for him to finish as he trails off. 

He never does.

Looking up again, she spies him thumbing absently at one of the rose petals, eyes downcast. Her heart tugs and she swallows the sudden lump in her throat. “Just what?”

He blinks twice and then shakes his head quickly, smile back on his face. “Just nothing. I’m sorry, it’s all on me. I should’ve stopped by to tell you about the supply contract the university has with this shop and the schedule we operate on,” his eyes dart to the heap of roses in front of them before returning to her face, “especially considering how busy Garland Moon gets.”

 _The smile doesn’t reach his eyes_ , Ingrid thinks to herself. 

She watches him push back from the table and head to the back room. She can hear sounds of rummaging and whispered mutters before he returns with a small white box and medical tape. Ingrid blinks blankly as he shakes it twice.

“Not quite the same as a donut but… arguably more useful.”

Ingrid scoffs, but can’t help the small smile on her lips. She sets her garland down and takes the box of bandaids from him. She hisses lightly when one of the edges presses into a shallow cut and Sylvain immediately shuffles closer. “Here, let me.”

Hesitant, she lets him gently take her hand in his, carefully wrapping the bandaids around her fingertips and any other cuts from earlier. Then, he tears off a few strips of tape and loops them around her fingers, securing the bandaids in place and allowing her additional flexibility. Ingrid wiggles her fingers and he smiles again, winking at her. “There. First aid, free of charge.”

 _This_ smile, more genuine. 

_Reaches his eyes._

Ingrid snorts and lightly bats his hands away, reaching for her garland. And the iced coffee. “Get back to work, these are _your_ orders I’m trying to fulfill,” she shoots him a mock glare and mimics his voice from earlier, “ _free of charge._ ”

Sylvain sputters indignantly and whines, “ _Ingrid!_ I do _not_ sound like that!”

She smiles into her drink, her heart tugging oddly as he starts grumbling to himself, pout returning to his face full force.

  
  
  


_Butterfly light kisses against her scraped fingertips and a boyish sunshine smile to stop her tears. “There! First aid, free of charge. So, don’t cry anymore, Ingie!”_

* * *

It doesn’t get any better even after knowing about the contracts. Even after Garland Moon.

Sylvain keeps clipping her flowers as contracted, but he is _not_ following the schedule.

Or rather, he _is,_ but he’s _also_ clipping a few other stray flowers on a whim that she doesn’t always notice, and she _knows_ he’s doing it on purpose. Especially if his cheeky smirks were anything to go by every time he stops by the greenhouse to pick-up a bulk order. 

_‘Lilies are sweet, don’t you think?’_

_‘There’s just something about English ivy that really gets me going, y’know?’_

_‘You’re looking as stunning as your hydrangeas today.’_

Even though Ingrid has _no_ idea what he means half the time, her cheeks still annoyingly flush each time he leaned into her space... and she has _definitely_ confronted him about it the last time she voluntarily made a delivery to the shop when he and Felix were swamped with wedding season, _specifically_ to grill him about it. “I swear you’re talking in code. Who even _says_ that about plants? And that’s coming from _me,_ a botanist.” she’d grumbled.

Sylvain only smiled secretively and shrugged, shooting her a wink. “I don’t know, Ing. You can always come back when you figure it out.”

So, she left in a huff and hasn’t been back since.

He hasn’t either. Come back to the greenhouse that is. 

Apparently, according to Felix, their shop always gets slammed during the wedding season and they often hunker down and wait for university staffers to deliver flowers for them.

When Ingrid asked him why _he_ still came around… all she got was a stiff glare and a straying glance toward the _other_ ginger milling around the greenhouse, her happy idle humming filling the air.

Meanwhile... the bane-of-her-existence-ginger _continues_ to clip her flowers.

Most recently, her hyacinths and carnations. 

Groaning in exasperation, Ingrid tears off her gardening gloves and reaches for the pocket journal in her apron. A frown grows on her face as she adds to her increasing log of missing flowers, courtesy of _Sylvain._

She claps the pages shut and stuffs it back into her apron, grumbling under her breath as she resumes her previous task of loosening soil, driving her trowel back into the dirt with a little _too_ much gusto. “Stupid, idiotic, confusing thorn in my side ginger—”

“Ingrid.”

“ _What?”_ Ingrid whips her head around to catch Dedue’s stoic expression, a tiny knit in his brow as he looks pointedly at the amount of soil she’s scattered all over herself and out of the actual plot she’s working on.

Sighing, she deflates and loosens her grip on the gardening tool. “I’m sorry, Dedue. I’ll clean this up before we lock-up for tonight.”

Dedue hums, eyes still on her as she half-heartedly sweeps some of the dirt back into the plot. “Perhaps a tea break is in order, you’ve been working hard.”

Ingrid shakes her head. “No, I shouldn’t… not after this mess I’ve made. I’ve still got to tidy up the—”

“Mercedes has stopped by with some pastries back in the lounge.”

She pauses, hesitating. Dedue smiles and helps her to her feet. “They’re fresh from the bakery.”

Ingrid caves. “Okay, maybe just a few minutes…”

Dedue’s grin widens and gestures to the exit. “Maybe we can even solve your issue with the… what did you say, ‘ _confusing thorn in my side ginger’_?”

Ingrid flushes, jaw dropping. “I-I… I’m sorry, I didn’t think anyone would hear that… There’s nothing wrong with Sylvain, he’s just—”

“He’s just a handful, we understand. In fact, Mercedes may have an idea or two about the game he’s playing with you.”

Her eyes widen before narrowing in suspicion. “Game?”

Dedue is already walking ahead of her and she hurries after him. “Dedue, game?”

He stops in his tracks and turns to face her, a twitch of his lips betraying his amusement. “Yes, a game.”

Ingrid huffs when he continues walking and crosses her arms as she falls into step beside him. “How is clipping my flowers for sale _off-schedule_ a game and not, I don’t know, a breach of contract?”

Dedue’s chuckle does nothing to abate her exasperation for their resident florist’s actions and she groans. “ _Dedue._ I’m serious!”

The man’s only response is his shaking before gently patting her on the shoulder. “What do you know about flower language, Ingrid?”

She frowns. “Not much, but what does that have to do with anything? Sylvain has been taking my flowers and _teasing_ me about it!”

“That he has. One flower at a time.”

Ingrid scrunches her nose. _True… it has really just been one flower at a time recently…_ “But…”

They reach the staff lounge and Dedue’s hand pauses on the door. “You’ve been keeping a log of which flowers Sylvain has been taking from you, correct?”

Heat rises in her cheeks and she sputters, “I have to keep him _accountable!_ ”

Dedue laughs and shakes his head. “I’m not trying to accuse you of anything, Ingrid. In fact, your log will be very useful.”

“Useful?”

He shoots her one last smile. “Yes, useful in decoding the message Sylvain has been trying to tell you. Mercedes is very well-versed. In fact, she’s the one who taught all of us before departing to pursue the culinary arts.”

Her mind grinds to a halt when he pushes the door open, Mercedes and Annette’s laughter filling her ringing ears.

* * *

Ingrid is halfway through her third stress-induced donut when Mercedes finishes flipping through her log.

When she first laid it out on the table for the older woman, Mercedes eyebrows shot up her forehead, a soft ‘ _oh my’_ escaping her lips and a request to scribble some notes in the margins for her to browse through at her own leisure.

Ingrid readily agreed, preferring to distract herself with the heavenly smell and taste of fresh pastries Mercedes had brought for them.

Until now.

The maple glaze in Ingrid’s mouth turns cloyingly sweet when Mercedes slowly shuts her journal and slides it back across the table to her, the smile on her face barely concealing her mirth. With her stomach rolling, Ingrid sets the donut down and shifts in her seat. “What is it?”

Mercedes shakes her head lightly. “Nothing. I just think you should talk to him.”

Ingrid frowns, grumbling, “Well, _he_ was the one who told me to go back when I figured it out…”

Annette and Dedue had already left the staff lounge to finish up their last remaining tasks, reassuring her that they’d also help out with hers so she could continue chatting with Mercedes. Instead of relief and gratitude, Ingrid felt a rolling sense of being left out of the loop, _especially_ with the quick exchange of smiles amongst the three of them. 

She feels her cheeks flush when Mercedes tuts gently and gives her the kind of smile that makes her feel _guilty_. “Is that the only reason you’re avoiding him?”

Ingrid purses her lips and the expression on Mercedes’ face shifts into something softer. “You said the last flowers he clipped were hyacinths and carnations?” Ingrid nods and Mercedes hums thoughtfully, “what color were they?”

“Purple for the hyacinth, pink and red for the carnations.”

“I’m sorry, I miss you.”

Ingrid blinks. And blinks.

Her mouth dries. “What?”

“The purple hyacinth means ‘I’m sorry’, the carnations ‘I miss you’.”

Ingrid’s chest twists and Mercedes pats the journal once more. “Why don’t you take a look through my notes first?”

She nods absently, her hands shaking as she reaches for the book’s worn edges. Mercedes covers her hands with hers, the warmth of her palms and her eyes as she gives her one last smile. “He was really excited to find out you started working at the university, Ingrid. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever see you again.”

And with that, Mercedes leaves her alone with her log of flowers, another memory resurfacing as she stares blankly at the pages she filled and the new scribbles in the margins.

Gladiolus, _strength, integrity, infatuation._

Lilacs, _youth._

Camellias, _adoration, longing._

Heathers, _admiration._

English ivy, _fidelity._

Hydrangeas, _heartfelt emotion._

Honeysuckles, _happiness, sweetness, and affection._

Sweet peas, _goodbye, thank you for a lovely time._

White roses, _young love, everlasting, and new beginnings._

Hyacinth, purple. _I’m sorry_

Carnations, pink and red. _I miss you._

  
  
  
  


_They were in his family’s gardens, his soft voice finally breaking the silence. “Do… do you have to leave? I don’t want you to go!”_

_“You still have Felix and Dimitri!”_

_He pouted and huffed. “It’s not the same…”_

_She pouted back. “I’m sorry! My mom isn’t feeling well and dad thinks moving out of the city might help…”_

_A few sniffles and she’s swept up into the warmest hug, her own tears starting to burn her eyes as his arms tighten around her. “I know… but I’m still gonna miss you, Ingie.”_

_“I’m gonna miss you too, Syl.”_

_He fell silent for a few moments before he unwound his arms and reached for something behind her. “Ing?”_

_Ingrid pulled back, roughly rubbing at her eyes. “What?”_

_He pushes something into her hands._

_A forget-me-not._

_She looked back at him, heart squeezing as he gave her one last smile. “We’ll meet again, okay?”_

Her heart skips a beat.

_Syl._

Sylvain.

Grip tightening, Ingrid dashes back out to the greenhouse. She spots Dedue, Annette, and Mercedes crouching by her plot of dirt earlier and she feels herself flush again. “I-I’m so sorry, I just—”

Annette rises and flashes her a bright smile. “No worries, Ingrid! You should go, we’ve gotten everything taken care of here.” Then, with an extra nod to herself and a twinkle in her eye, Annette teases, “besides, Sylvain’s waiting for you. _Been_ waiting for you.”

Ingrid lets out an embarrassed huff despite herself but quickly nods her thanks as Dedue and Mercedes also wave her off, matching smiles on their faces.

Her heart races as she pulls out of the university parking lot, turning her car down the familiar streets of the downtown area to the floral shop she’s been avoiding for weeks.

-

Ingrid sees his telltale mess of ginger hair and she blazes into the shop, flipping his shop sign to _‘closed’_ on her way in. Sylvain whips around when the bell tinkles, his eyes lighting up as a smile breaks out on his face. “You came back!”

She marches up to him and swats her journal against his chest. “You could’ve just _told me_ like a normal person—”

The grin on his face widens. “Now Ingrid, where’s the _fun_ in that?”

Ingrid swats him again but caves to the hug he wraps her in, his face pressing against her hair, voice low, “I missed you.”

She buries herself into his shoulder with burning cheeks, her heart skipping the same beat it did all those years ago.

All because of those big bright smiles he used to give her, and only her.

She hugs him even closer, mumbling into his shirt, “I missed you too.”

They stay like that a while, her ear pressed to the steady beating of his heart, _a little faster than normal,_ if she lets herself believe. 

She bites her lip, gathering her courage. “...Did you mean it?”

Sylvain stiffens, his grip unconsciously tightening around her. “Mean what?”

Ingrid pulls back, eyeing him closely. He’s not quite meeting her gaze, and his cheeks are growing pinker. She presses on, “every flower you clipped. Did you mean it?”

He has the nerve to _pretend_ otherwise. “I, uh, don’t know what you mean—”

“Gladiolus, lilacs, camellias, heathers.”

“Um—”

“English ivy, hydrangeas.”

“Er, well—”

“Honeysuckles, sweet peas, and white roses?”

Sylvain’s face is tomato red and she can practically see the steam coming from his ears. Ingrid presses her lips into a thin line, trying to hide her amusement as his eyes dart to every part of his shop except for her.

Even as he makes absolutely _no_ move to untangle himself from her.

 _She can tease him a little bit more._ Ingrid clears her throat and inhales dramatically. “I admire your strength and your integrity. I have since we were young and I long for the day we meet again. To relive the sweet days of happiness we had with each other. Although we said goodbye, I always think about you. Where you are, how you’re doing… I know it sounds sappy, but I’m serious! And like all things in life, there’s always new beginnings. Like usual, I’ve messed them up, but I’m sorry. I miss you. I lo--”

Sylvain’s head drops onto her shoulder abruptly and he groans loudly, “Ingriiiiiid, _stop..._ it’s so much more romantic without all the flowery language.”

Ingrid smiles, nudging his chin up until he looks at her again. Embarrassment swirls in his eyes and Ingrid cups his face, teasing, “ _you’re_ the one who chose to communicate with me through literal floral meanings. This is _entirely_ your fault.”

He groans again and turns his face into her hand, “well, despite giving you my ever so thoughtful forget-me-not, you still didn’t remember me at first! What was I supposed to do?”

“Oh, I don’t know, _talk to me_ like most other people do?”

Sylvain peeks at her, pout still on his face. “Like I said, there’s no fun in that!”

She snorts, shaking her head, her heartwarming at the hopeful dancing in his eyes. “At least tell me it worked…?”

Ingrid turns his face fully back to her and rises to her toes to press a soft kiss to his cheek. She smiles as pink blossoms across the bridge of his nose, skin flushing under her touch. “Hm… I don’t know about the flowery language, Sylvain... but I think the rosy complexion works better.”


End file.
